Finding Your Inner Baba

Recently a friend describes how she brought her extended clan together for a Night to Remember party where departed kin were remembered accompanied by scalloped potatoes and ham. 

I look over at her. “You’re the Baba in your family.”

Her blue eyes grin back at me.  “ I know”.

Neither Ukrainian or a grandmother, she is as much a Baba as one can be. Babas aren’t necessarily Ukrainian, or grandmothers, or old, or even female.  My husband, I must admit, is probably a better Baba than I am. With roots in the backwoods of Arkansas and the mountains of Norway, he took up my culture.  His nature is to nurture – cooking, comforting, being there – thinking of the needs of others without inserting his will (there we differ).  I know my mother recognized this in him early on when she gave one of the last existing copies of the bible of Ukrainian recipes (Ukrainian Cookery by Savella Stechishin) to my husband, not me.  Dedicated, no less. 

Every race has its Babas. When we lived in Korea I would watch the Babas in action.  The word that comes to mind is Formidable.  Not just your kim-chi making Halmoni but judge and jury in family matters.  For me, that’s too much pressure. And you live with your kids. When we lived in Switzerland I saw the family matriarchs rule categorically.  Swiss women did not get the vote till 1971 because, as the women there clarify, “The man is the head of the household but the woman is the neck that turns the head”.  Seen it in action.  Don’t want the job.  Prefer my own head.

The trouble with archetypes is they’re often myths.  When many people think of Babas they see a wrinkled, rosy face enclosed in a huska (kerchief).  Squat and solid, with hands worn by work and legs bowed by arthritis, they hobble from stove to garden and back again. Their sphere of influence is paltry, limited to church and family.

Not today.  Today Babas are chameleons.  Jean jackets and tattoos; power suits and $200 hair cuts; polyester tummy pants and t-shirts stained with toddlers’ lunch; white hair and spike heels; sweaty and muscled; clay covered or paint spattered; birkenstocked and braless; Lulu Lemoned head to toe; wrapped in bright saris or hidden under burquas.

Some people are born Babas.  You can see them even as children, clucking and herding, watching and organizing. Babas are also made.  Though I didn’t have a Baba growing up, I watched the Super Baba, my mom, in action.  I also watched hundreds of other women fill this role, some were aunties, some I met only in a book or a newspaper, some walking dogs, some I worked or played along side of, some I invented through the eyes of a child. 

The point is that Baba, Grandma, Kokum, Oma, Bibi, Nonna, Ama, Popo is whoever you choose to be.

So don’t buy into the myths.  Find your own Inner Baba.  Whoever you are.

Circumnavigating the Block: A Late Winter Expedition

In my continuing efforts to be helpful to my pregnant daughter and daughter in law,  I insist on taking the midgets (14 and 20 months) outside.  Bundled in polar gear and (with a nod to the Myth of Coming Spring) new rubber boots, we begin our expedition to Circumnavigate the Block.

Two waddling penguins follow me down the sidewalk, one announcing “slippery!” on each patch of glare ice, the other confirming the observation by landing on her bum.  Shocked by the appearance of a forest of wire-wildlife on the lawn of a neighbor, they freeze and stare, knowing instinctively the results of sudden movement.  When none of the animals respond, they lose interest - yet another Unexplained Phenomenon. 

Out of simple curiousity or perhaps an attempt to seek help and thus put an end to the expedition, they make the long traverse of driveways, climbing the front steps of complete strangers. Trading animated gibberish on the existence of a thoughtfully placed front bench or shrieks of delight at the appearance of a bronze bunny planted in the snow, they stop and smell artificial flowers artfully placed in frozen flower boxes.  The elder navigates the crusty snow in front yards to reach a display of birdhouses, once surprising the hell out of an elderly gentleman as he reversed out of his garage to find a little snowman examining birdseed in his rockery. 

Categorizing what we see is difficult.  Truck, car, or SUV? Grey, silver, or white? These are serious distinctions I often feel unequipped to respond to. Crossing the street requires inordinate coordination.  Look left, look right, look left again.  With up to a two second delay between word and action an observer would have assumed we were a group of Tourette victims passing by.  The disappointing yet realistic decision to abandon our quest was determined by cries of Hum! Hum! (Eat! Eat!) and little arms reaching Up! Up!  

As is often the case, adventure brings us closer to local culture, occasionally with unexpected results. On the return trip home, the elder stops in his tracks, mesmerized.  There on the front porch of a neighbor is a life-sized blow-up snowman, who, in a cruel joke, is shivering with his arms wrapped around himself in an effort to keep warm.  “Noman zhoozhi!” Snowman is cold!  I melt with the dearness of it all.  In an effort to determine whether the statement is strictly observational or is accompanied by empathy, I ask him what the snowman needs.  ‘Jacket! Boots! Hat!’ I point out the snowman has a hat.  The look I receive makes it clear I am an idiot and unaware that the black hat of a snowman is decorative and not functional.  Hating to leave while he is distressed about the snowman’s fate I suggest we go home and get a jacket for the snowman.  The little one, observing the interaction, shakes her head in dismay as if to say “It’s not real you nincompoops – it’s plugged in!”. 

Tired and hungry we arrive home to the warmth of the hearth.  With high pitched gibberish and wildly gesticulating arms they recount the highlights of their escapades, sharing the camaraderie that only explorers can.  Truly they are adventurers.

The Great Nap Experiment

Science is a tricky business.  Planning an experiment should take considered effort and thought.  But sometimes, the light just comes on, and you’re in it before you’ve really thought it through. 

Recently I’d noticed how babies and youngsters of all species can, at the drop of a hat, do a group sleep.  Puppies, apes, kittens, birds, piglets, and cubs will at some unknown cue stop their rough-housing and in minutes be fast asleep in a pile.  Kindergarteners and day care kids will, when the sleeping mats roll out at nap time, knock off together. My hypothesis is that a chemical signal, a pheromone of sorts, is responsible for the shut down.

To test my hypothesis I consider several options.  One is to put both of my little charges in the same crib at opposite ends and then do the usual lullaby/story song and dance while seated in a chair outside the bars.  (The metaphor of zoo or prison is, I know, horrifying). Even I see the folly in this plan and instead opt to mimic the pile-of-puppies imagery and put them both to sleep on my lap.  I know, I know.  A thoroughly modern Baba would have set up two play pens in different rooms, handed out the bottles and blankies, read a couple of stories, passed the verdict of Nap Time, closed the doors and retreated to her computer to check her Facebook page.

But what would we learn from this?

I announce to my daughter in law (DIL) whose house the Little One Number Two and I are visiting, that I intend to put both babies to sleep at the same time on the same lap.  Barely able to contain her mirth she maintains a straight face while preparing two bottles and changing both babies in preparation for what is clearly a doomed venture. I march them upstairs to the tune of Hey Tam Na Horeh, a Ukrainian military song.

Delighted with this sudden madness they join me in climbing into the big comfy leather rocker where I distribute bottles, set up elbow cushions, and prepare to read a story.  Except that my choice in literature is not unanimous and the book is flung far across the room.  A second candidate finds more favour but the pace at which I turn pages is unacceptable and loudly denounced.  I abandon story time. 

At which point the younger cousin realizes that her tiny petite body is being squished like a bug by the burliness that is her cousin.  (My inside voice laughs hysterically to think that my lap is actually not big enough.  I make a mental note to bring this to my husband’s attention). We adjust the seating arrangement and I begin the fascinating story in which all their family, toys, food, and favourite activities are catalogued and discussed. The elder wants to hear nothing except stories about Buster the dog.  The younger, nose still out of joint from her demotion to second tenant of Baba’s lap, just wants to go to sleep.  However, she stirs to action as the Poking Wars begin accompanied by insane laughter. Not mine.

Persistence is key in any endeavor and mine is eventually rewarded as the lullabies and/or pheromones have their effect. Eyes flutter….and close.  Yesssss!

Then CRASH!  I know that my daughter in law who is pregnant is working in one of the next rooms. I shout her name.  No answer except sudden cries from the babies as they hear the alarm in my voice.  I shout again.  Nothing.  I deposit the hollering babies abruptly and unceremoniously on the floor and run, finding my DIL in the bathroom dealing with a shelf that fell off the wall.  The children are beside themselves with fear and confusion, both reaching for her after their betrayal at the hands of their formerly loving Baba.  I really can’t blame them. 

My DIL graciously suggests that my intentions were good, but perhaps ill-conceived.  This is probably true.  Still, despite complications the experiment was, all things considered, a good start. Like any good scientist I look forward to verifying or refuting my results.  

If they let me….